The Man with the Broken Fingers throws a shadow.

Down from the spruce and evergreen mountain timbers of Norway—

And across Europe and the Mediterranean to the oasis palms of Libya—

He lives and speaks a sign language of lost fingers.

From a son of Norway who slipped the Gestapo nets, the Nazi patrols,

The story comes as told among those now in Norway.

Shrines in their hearts they have for this nameless man

Who refused to remember names names names the Gestapo wanted.

“Tell us these names. Who are they? Talk! We want those names!”

And the man faced them, looked them in the eye, and hours passed and no names came—hours on hours and no names for the Gestapo.

They told him they would break him as they had broken others.

The rubber hose slammed around face and neck,

The truncheon handing pain with no telltale marks,

Or the distinction of the firing squad and death in a split second—

The Gestapo considered these and decided for him something else again.

“Tell us those names. Who were they? Talk! Names now—or else!”

And no names came—over and over and no names.

So they broke the little finger of the left hand.

Three fingers came next and the left thumb bent till it broke.

Still no names and there was a day and night for rest and thinking it over.

Then again the demand for names and he gave them the same silence.

And the little finger of the right hand felt itself twisted,

Back and back twisted till it hung loose from a bleeding socket.

Then three more fingers crashed and splintered one by one

And the right thumb back and back into shattered bone.

Did he think about violins or accordions he would never touch again?

Did he think of baby or woman hair he would never again play with?

Or of hammers or pencils no good to him any more?

Or of gloves and mittens that would always be misfits?

He may have laughed half a moment over a Gestapo job

So now for a while he would handle neither knife nor fork

Nor lift to his lips any drinking-cup handle

Nor sign his name with a pen between thumb and fingers.

And all this was halfway—there was more to come.

The Gestapo wit and craft had an aim.

They wanted it known in Norway the Gestapo can be terrible.

They wanted a wide whispering of fear

Of how the Nazis handle those who won’t talk or tell names.

“We give you one more chance to co-operate.”

Yet he had no names for them.

His locked tongue, his Norwegian will pitted against Nazi will,

His pride and faith in a free man’s way,

His welcoming death rather than do what they wanted—

They brought against this their last act of fury,

Breaking the left arm at the elbow,

Breaking it again at the shoulder socket—

And when he came to in a flicker of opening eyes